


No Business

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1930s, Detective Noir, F/F, Golden Age Hollywood, Historical, Wisecracking Dames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-07-01
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: Vera made her reputation -- if ended her film career -- when she broke that studio executive's nose. Margo Blake, the most aristocratic of Hollywood's gossip columnists, put a seal of approval on that wisecracking, bad-girl reputation by hiring Vera as her leg-woman. But Vera's going to need more than a façade now the murders have begun.





	No Business

I

By 1935, life in Hollywood being what it is for a woman, I'd already been trapped with all sorts of men in all kinds of unpleasant conditions. But this was a new one on me. With two bullet holes in him, Vincent Pelasky was dead.

I pursed my lips at the body, and then took another and more careful survey of his office. No weapon. Nothing seemed out of place. His desktop was just the way he liked it; neat and noncommittal, even the blotter blank, perfect for a Movie-town shyster who wanted to play at being gilt-edged. All the framed diplomas, some of them possibly earned, were hanging straight above the wainscoting. Both the wooden file cabinets and the glass-fronted bookcases seemed to be securely locked. I took a cautious step forward. The trashcan under his desk was empty. A second step and I reached out a hand. Taking the blood into consideration, the lack of pulse confirmed that our meeting was canceled.

Oh, I'd expected something screwy after he said his secretary would be gone to lunch when I arrived, but only the usual ambush. Ever since I gained my reputation by breaking a certain senior studio executive's nose, half the males in town seemed to view me as hostile terrain worth exploring, a kind of feminine Amazon jungle. And my manner doesn't help. Spend any time in the studio system being groomed for a particular type of role, and you'll unthinkingly fall into that behavior for years afterwards whether you mean to or not.

Young ladies of America, take my advice. Don't plan on being a wisecracking bad girl. It's much too exhausting a business.

Whatever his intentions, though, Pelasky wasn't in any position to carry them out now. That left me as the only person in this office who could act. And right now, I needed some executive advice about my plans. 

Taking my handkerchief out of my clutch, I picked up the receiver of Pelasky's phone with it and used my pen to dial. Three rings on the other end, and a familiar, cultured alto answered. "Yes?"

"Me. I'm in Mr. Pelasky's office. With his corpse."

To give Mrs. Blake her due, she didn't fuss. She only said, "Bother," and then asked, "Your doing?"

Unseen by her, I rolled my eyes. "No, ma'am. I'm wearing proper heels. They would've taken care of any problem that arose. He was dead when I got here."

"Vera, don't attempt to be pert. Under these circumstances, even your best efforts are wasted." She clucked her tongue, thinking. "I'll call Mr. Maxwell—” her lawyer, of Gibson, Aitken, and Maxwell, "—and have him send over one of his young men. Do you want me to telephone the police as well?"

That's my boss for you: one part annoyance to two parts efficiency. "No, the call should be my job. Since I haven't already alerted the entire office building by screaming down the ceilings, that is."

"What a repulsive notion. Please don't. Good luck." Without another word, she hung up.

Three hours later I was allowing Richard Fitzgerald, Mr. Maxwell's young man, to light a cigarette for me. To tell the truth, I don't much like smoking, but in this case I'd made an exception. The detectives would insist on looming and would feel they had to address me as "Sister." They wouldn't remove their hats in the presence of a lady, though. All of them were typical members of the notoriously tough L.A.P.D. Notoriously tough and corrupt. Notoriously tough, corrupt, and rude. Anyhow, to make a too-long story short, the past few hours had been like being trapped on a set full of extras in a Warner Brothers gangster film, which made for a drawn-out afternoon.

I took a drag, considered coughing, suppressed the impulse, and blew out a long stream of smoke instead. "Thank you."

"A pleasure, Miss Seward,” he said, letting me know he meant the words with a smile.

Cupping my elbow while resting two fingers of the other hand against my cheek, I gave him a slow smile in return. "Call me Vera." He'd earned the privilege by his valiant efforts to address me rather than my neckline. He'd even come close to succeeding. Besides, I like tall, smart blonds.

We were jostled by yet another photographer, so Fitzgerald took my arm and pulled me a little farther down the corridor before he asked, "Remember, I’m now your councilor-at-law, Vera. Do you have anything to add in confidence to what you told those detectives?"

I shrugged. "No. Mr. Pelasky claimed to have some information for Mrs. Blake. He's had good tips before, so there was no reason for me to suspect anything more interesting from the hints he gave than some tale of an impending divorce.”

"He didn't provide any details?"

"Aside from implying that we would owe him a big favor over this juice? No."

The look he gave me mingled professional doubt and mild admiration. My boss, Mrs. Blake, may be better known to you as Margot Blake, or better known still as the Wry Observer of _Columbia_ magazine's bi-monthly “Commentary from Hollywood.” For years she's written the highbrow alternative to Louella Parson’s gossip column, and for the last three of those years I've been her faithful Gal Friday. Fitzgerald was probably suspecting me of loyally concealing enormities, but he wouldn't press me for details. That's Hollywood for you.

In fact – and I'll admit this was a touch unusual – I was concealing nothing aside from my usual urge to poke Mrs. Blake with a pin. She'd been too busy with her Muse to actually bother talking with Pelasky when I'd told her who was on the phone. Instead she'd glanced up from her Underwood, a gold automatic pencil clutched between her full lips, and arched eyebrows at the very notion that she could interrupt her two-finger typing to speak with a reliable canary. I'd had to set up this meeting, complete with a minimum of information and a maximum of innuendo, all by myself. And my reward had been dealing with several bulls that needed to think over their irritation at having slept on the couch before they came to work, in my measured opinion. Oh, and I’d been gifted with Fitzgerald, useful since it’s always smart to be on good terms with your lawyer. On tactical grounds I gave him another smile before I stubbed out the cigarette in a sand-filled ashtray bolted to one corridor wall. I wondered if he could dance.

As matters turned out, he at least thought he could, and he promised to demonstrate at the Cocoanut Grove on Friday. In the meantime, though, I refused his offer of a lift and fetched the Packard sedan from where I'd parked it a block and a half away. Why is it that so many men seem to think a woman can't drive? I certainly can, and I did, back to Mrs. Blake's little hovel above Sunset Boulevard.

The late Mr. Blake, by all accounts, was a huge, leonine character whose jovial manner had concealed killer instincts. He'd had money in the studios, and money in Eastern banks, and money in real estate, and just plain money, much of which ended up clasped in Mrs. Blake's cool and elegant fingers. I suppose that, after his early death, she could have settled back into their Hollywood Beaux-Arts faux-Renaissance mansion, surveyed the decades of affluent leisure stretching out in front of her, and never again done anything more active than ring for tea. That wouldn't have suited her, though. It’s not just that she’s only in her late thirties and showing few signs of even that many years, but also because her tastes clash with idleness.

My employer is nosy. There's no arguing with that fact. She's also stubborn and opinionated, two of her more charming traits in a town that runs more towards trimming truth to fit the prevailing fashion. Her glorified gossip column and her financial swing combine to let her pry around town to her heart's content without stooping to the kind of biddy-fest backstabbing character-assassination in which most Hollywood snoops indulge. Instead this town is her favorite hobby. As she described her behavior over cups of Lapsang Souchong one day, she cultivates her cynicism the way some of the local matrons cultivate their over-landscaped Oriental gardens. That's a lifelong project I can get behind, and do.

But that doesn't mean I'm paid to be her lapdog. When I came into the big library she uses as her office, I drifted from the oak bookshelves to the Navajo rug hung up as a tapestry, and from the tapestry to the leather armchairs in the center of the room, all while doing my best Ophelia impression. Then I wandered over to the mission desk I call my own and propped myself up on its edge, where I spent some time examining my features in my compact mirror.

Eventually, like I'd known they would, the slow taps of her typing dribbled away to nothing. Her clear, grey eyes were fixed on me from over her gold-rimmed pince-nez. "Well?"

"Do you think this is a new wrinkle on my forehead?"

Her sigh could have been mailed in to Emily Post’s etiquette column as an example of patrician tolerance. "Vera, I apologize for not speaking to Mr. Pelasky myself. But you still would have ended up being the one to discover his body, so I really don't know why you're bothering to fuss."

"Oh, just for the practice, I suppose."

She tilted her head in interest, diluted with about three drops of real concern. "Not too gruesome, I hope."

I crossed my arms, and my shiver wasn't feigned, but neither was the shrug that I followed it up with. "There's no such thing as a good-looking corpse, but I guess there are worse sights than two bullets through the chest and shoulder."

"Yes," she said. I didn't ask her how she knew, but I was sure that she did. "However, that doesn't mean your particular encounter wasn't vile. What did you discover before the police arrived?"

"The drawers and cases were locked, and his trash was empty, but I tried ye olde rubbing-on-the-blotter trick and it worked." I opened my clutch and handed over the page I'd tucked into my stenographer's notebook. Hadn't the police searched me for a weapon or anything else of interest? Why, yes they had, but for some reason they hadn't delved deep into the small cloisonné case that was supposed to hold my hygienic supplies. Imagine that.

She took my notes of what I’d found, unfolded it, and held it up right beneath the onyx shade of her desk lamp. "Daniel Ty— The rest of the name is a scrawl." Her aquiline nostrils flared, as if she'd scented something slightly rank. "Danny Tyler."

"That was my first thought, too." He was a studio man from Everest, my former Hollywood home. Technically, he was an assistant producer. Actually, he was a combination fixer and finger-man. And he was known to go drinking with Pelasky.

"Umm." She picked up her pencil, tapped it against her lips, and then asked, "Do you think this is about the Atkins/Wycombe affair?"

"No, the Studio retrieved those photographs. Besides, D. J. Stone's too smart to stoop to murder, and his people in Publicity were handling that mess, not Tyler."

"True."

"How about Icy O'Grady? For a while, Tyler was setting him up with starlets, and guns are more O'Grady's style."

"Mr. O'Grady's much too preoccupied with Las Vegas right now. No, I do believe this may be about that hit-and-run that occurred by the movie theater over by Pico and La Cienega."

"You're kidding me."

The cool smile on her lips shaded towards smug, but I let that go by. Mrs. Blake's ability to string together information is almost as amazing as she thinks it is, one reason I put up with all the seven-sisters-college, more-intellectual-than-thou discussions over Wedgwood plates at dinner. That, and the fact that underneath the gilt she's one of the few women in this town tough enough to take down a studio head and walk off unscathed. And knowing Mrs. Blake, her refined nose would be stuck high in the air as she stalked away.

"I kid you not." How did she make that phrase sound like it had two or three sets of quotation marks around it? "These other numbers,” she indicated one corner of my paper with a short but perfectly manicured fingernail, "are from the partial license plate that was reported in the newspapers for the vehicle that killed those two children in that alley behind the El Matador."

I took another look and then made a face. She was right. The three numbers had been rearranged several times, other numbers had been substituted here and there, and the sequence was all written out in one long string, but I still should have spotted the pattern. "The cops will catch that in a red-hot second."

"They may. In any case, be very glad that none of these possibilities resembles any license plate on a vehicle in this household."

Since I do half the driving around here, I was. Mrs. Blake is a classic example of the sort who give men their notions about women not driving. I don't think she's taken the wheel herself since I've known her. Perhaps she feels it would stain her doeskin traveling gloves.

Her eyes distant, the gold pencil crept between her teeth and she began to delicately nibble. That's not elegant but it's habitual, which is the reason for her fancy desk-set. Apparently silver tastes terrible. I wouldn't know. Unlike a certain older female not five feet away, I was born with a wooden spoon in my mouth.

Abruptly she focused and put the pencil back down. "Have Sarah telephone our usual people and see if she can discover what Mr. Pelasky was up to in the days before he was murdered. Oh, and speak with your friend on the police force about the hit-and-run. Detective Sergeant, Sergeant—?"

"Cole. Steven Cole." She knew perfectly well what his name was. He'd even picked me up at the main house a few times on our way out to the La Monica Ballroom on the Santa Monica Pier. Cole was an exception to the L.A.P.D. rule, being tough but not rude. Rather, he was polished to a high gloss. The jury was still out on the possibility of corruption.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Whomever. Go." Tucking back one strand of dark blonde hair that had dared to escape from her coiffure, she turned back to her typewriter. Her forefingers began their slow, staccato rhythm on the keys again.

Perhaps I should have been more annoyed by my abrupt dismissal than I was. Well, I tried to be, but I didn't succeed. I was too interested in planning my angle of attack on an intriguing puzzle that deserved to be solved. One of the benefits of working for Mrs. Blake is that I'm rarely bored. And after a childhood and youth wasted mostly on film sets while waiting my turn to look either precious or sultry, an interesting life is a real incentive to good behavior.

However, my life was about to get more interesting than even I particularly enjoy. Gosh, there’s certainly no business like show business.

***

That evening, I had a last-minute date to join a nightclubbing group at the Cafe Merador. I took the Packard sedan and picked up my date at the Garden of Allah which suited us both just fine. By eight in the evening, Gary Walpole usually would have been flirting with a cocktail shaker for a few hours, so he was willing to be chauffeured. And in his case, I didn't mind taking second place to a mess of drinks. Gary half-lit was better company than most men sober.

He was a scriptwriter who'd done the usual deal for his soul with a studio, but unlike most brainy East Coast boys, he didn't insist on explaining how what happened next was all Hollywood's fault. No matter what his liquid company might be during the evening, he stayed charming. He never got mean, he never made rude assumptions about his masculine rights as an escort, and when he finally folded he'd sleep quietly while smiling at whatever he was dreaming about.

Since I was driving, I had to quickly slip on my pumps before handing the car off to the valet. Gary watched the show with almost abstract appreciation and then presented his arm. As the doorman let us in through the doors covered with red leather, he said, "You've run out all the guns this evening, I see. I like that blue-jeweled clasp."

I was in my new party frock, an aquamarine satin number with a flared skirt and a clasped, diamante-decorated capelet. Yes, I know that I'm a brunette, but I have pale skin, so I can get away with aquamarine. Given that the dress was a faux Chanel, you'd have to be blind not to notice the overall display, but it's amazing how many men would never have let any details register. Gary still earned his merit badge.

"Well, dear, John Kendrick is a guest at this party. If I don't make an effort, the waiters won’t notice me and I'll starve." John has that certain, special something that holds all eyes, both on film and off. Unlike me. Every so often I can still gather up gazes in real life, but I'd lost any special magic up on the screen after my growth spurt ended my roles in the silents as Baby Peggy. And that's a second good reason why I'm a Gal Friday these days, and not just another self-deluding, slowly aging starlet. I know the difference between looks, professionalism, and screen charisma.

"Oh, I doubt you'd let yourself starve. And, no matter what you think, gentlemen would still trample each other coming to the rescue if any real peril loomed." Gary gave me a slow smile. I squeezed his arm and relaxed a little. Maybe I’d have felt different in some other burgh, but in Hollywood even the five-and-dime clerks were beautiful, so many of them having come to town with dreams of screen fame. Stupid though it may be, I do have my moments of feeling badly outclassed.

What a pity that the next time Gary used that smile was on the sommelier. The wine waiter took his order, and those of John Kendrick, the Millers, and Susan Somebody, John’s date, a starlet whose name he garbled when he introduced her around the table.

Mr. George Miller, our host and the owner of a chain of men's clothing stores as well as several automobile agencies, viewed himself as a gay dog. He was fond of toying with big cigars and flirting with other men's women. Basically, he was harmless and often he was amusing. To give him his due, he'd invite guests that amused him without worrying about being outshone, one reason why Gary and I were sharing his table. The other reason for our presence was Gary's old friend from back east, Mrs. Miller. She was a voluptuous redhead who was also some sort of relative of John Kendrick's, hence the royal presence. She was wittier than her husband, but her wit had a sharp edge honed by a decade of his flirtations. Mr. Miller was incorrigible. Sure enough, when we arrived he was over-tipping the girl who took photographs while smiling benevolently at the cleavage of her short, low-cut dress.

"Hold on, honey,” Miller told her, and gestured towards me. "How about a shot of the fastest left fist in Hollywood?"

"Gee, should I be complimented or insulted?" I tried to keep my tone light.

"Depends on what act the fist in question is speeding to commit, I'd imagine," said Gary, as he handed me into the booth. Like most writers, he loves double-entendres. Mrs. Miller glared at him, and then turned the glare onto her husband.

Once seated, we paused and posed for our picture. Then I had to blink away the afterimage of the flashbulb before I could read the leather-bound menu our waiter had handed me. As usual, mine was the lady's menu and sans prices. If Mr. Miller didn't pick up the entire check, about a one-in-four chance, Gary would have to keep track of the totals and then we'd settle up with each other later. Even so, I decided to skip the Mexican specialties and order the Cornish game hen, undoubtedly a splurge. After all, how often does a girl see her first murdered man?

Sure enough, Pelasky's death was the favorite topic of conversation over appetizers. As in any company town, news travels fast in Hollywood.

John Kendrick smiled at me warmly. I didn't take it personally, but I had a moment's struggle. "I hope the cops didn't give you too much of a headache."

"No, the boss trotted out a lawyer. Besides, my bit-part in the scene was dull. Find corpse, react. I even forgot the scream."

Susan Someone stopped toying with her shrimp cocktail long enough to widen her eyes and shudder dramatically. The anatomy that is politely called her neck got good mileage out of the gesture. "I don't know how you stood it. I would have had hysterics."

John made comforting noises and managed to get in a few gratuitous pats while doing so. Valiantly, I refrained from rolling my eyes at this helping of ham. Mrs. Miller didn't bother. She shot the starlet a glance coated with vitriol and laced with cyanide.

"Any clues as to who got to him?" Miller asked.

I shrugged. His missus said, tone dry, "George, dearest, she'd hardly tell us that, when she could be holding back the information for the uses of her employer."

"That sounds promising. Do you have prospects of a raise out of this?" Gary asked me, face solemn.

"Nope."

"Hell. There goes yet another chance to be kept in the style to which I wish to grow accustomed."

Amusement rolled around the table at the same time that the serving cart with our entrees rolled up to it. To my mild relief, conversation then moved on to that perennial favorite topic of Hollywood: money. John's last few movies had done well and his contract was up for renewal. He devoted such of his attention as wasn't dedicated to his date's sensitive nerves to Mr. Miller's advice about investments appropriate to different levels of salary. Susan palpitated, Gary and Mrs. Miller swapped home-town tales, and I devoted myself to enjoying hen that wasn't quite as good as what I could have gotten back at the mansion.

But I couldn't have gotten that good a dance band at home, nor such good partners. Oh, not my escort, I'm afraid. Gary does his best, but booze and fancy footwork don't mix. He doesn't mind handing me off, though, and he did. I got to decorate the floor with John Kendrick, good for some points with those who keep that kind of score, and then try out the paces of an assortment of other would-be Romeos. None of them were quite top-of-the-line, but I still enjoyed myself. I'd taken a break in the powder room to freshen my nose and assess how much longer my feet would hold up when trouble hit.

Or rather, trouble tripped. As I later sorted matters out, Mr. Fox-face Mug had been trying to tuck something into my clutch in the narrow corridor leading from the dance floor to the ladies and gents. Given how badly the transfer turned out, whatever he was when not in evening dress, he sure wasn't a successful pick-pocket. Instead of making a neat connection as he passed, he somehow caught his foot on a stack of chairs, failed in his effort to catch himself, and ended up sprawling on the carpeting just behind me. The envelope he'd been holding went fluttering away towards the mouth of the corridor.

Instinctively, I took a step forward and stomped on the envelope, hard. When I looked down, just past my pointed toe was an erroneous address to Mrs. Blake in a firm, bold, masculine set of cut-out letters. All of my moments of irritation aside, her last name is certainly not B____. This wasn't a tip from a potential source, then. I twisted around to look back at Fox-face and found he'd finished his slide practically united in matrimony with the ankles of someone else's starlet date, a girl who, unlike me, knew how to scream.

She did so. Her escort came barreling out of the men's room like a fireman heading for a three-alarm blaze, although one hopes that firemen take the time to tuck themselves away before springing onto their red trucks. Apparently being a believer in discretion as the better part of valor, instead of stopping for discussion, Fox-face made it back up onto his pins and headed for the dance floor. Unfortunately, that route was currently blocked by a frowning young woman with her shoe firmly planted on his undelivered message: me.

Wisecracking bad girl or not, he still had a good fifty pounds on me. He went past me like a drunken longshoreman past a social worker, and I was down. The chivalrous escort who should have been my proxy in the pursuit was being held back by his date, who'd apparently noticed that his slip was showing. If you want anything done right, you have to do it yourself.

I'd made it up onto my feet, but Fox-face had a head start and I had on pumps, darn it. Still, I did the best I could. That best turned out to be waiting within arm's reach on the tray of a waiter gaping at the show. I grabbed. I let fly. Fox-face had been slowed by ducking around patrons on the dance floor, so the Baked Alaska hit him right between the shoulders. That caused him to slip on the highly-polished floor, but the impact wasn't enough to send him over, darn it, darn it, darn it. He recovered and kept going. And then, to add insult to my injury, the doorman held the door open for Fox-face as he fled into the night.

Gary's only comment about the incident afterwards was, "You certainly know how to liven up a dance floor, Vera. Not to mention, burnish your reputation."

Given all of this provocation, even though the envelope was addressed to “BLAKE YOU B____” I felt free to open it up for a preview.

"Mind your own business,” the note inside read, which was presumptuous. "Otherwise, you're dead," it finished up, which was downright rude.

II

When I got back to the mansion, Mr. Inoue, the Blake household's butler, had already gone to bed. I used my key to let myself into the foyer, where I met Sarah going the other way. She paused in putting on her cloth coat to assess me, and the corners of her eyes crinkled a little with amusement. "Heavy date?"

"In a manner of speaking." Sarah is my counterpart, supposedly Mrs. Blake's social secretary, and actually the woman who works the phones while I'm out in the fields fending off the wolves and wildcats of Hollywood. She's a quiet and innocuous brunette who fades into the background, but I'll freely admit that she could see my I.Q. and raise me ten points. Mrs. Blake could probably spot me thirty without breaking into a fine perspiration, but I try not to admit to that without prodding.

"Anything I should know about?"

I shook my head. "Only more splash from Vincent Pelasky's murder, would be my guess. You'll get the full briefing tomorrow, but first I have to tell her tonight."

"Mrs. Blake's up in her bedroom. I left her with some folders containing information about what Pelasky and Tyler are supposed to have been up to, recently. Oh, and your Detective Sergeant Cole hasn't called you back yet."

"What a surprise."

Sarah smiled primly. Her, prim. Now there was false advertising. "If that’s all for the evening, I'm retreating to home and hearth." In her case, that was the gatehouse where she lived with her husband, Mrs. Blake's handyman and sometime chauffeur, Jimmy.

"Lucky you. I'm off to report." I gave her a grand and sweeping farewell with my now-defunct capelet and then headed upstairs. Up a lot of stairs under a lot of oriental runner.

When I rapped on the big oak door, Mrs. Blake called out, "Come in, Vera." Somehow, she always knew when the petitioner was me; I don't think my rap was modest enough to be mistaken for that of any of her other employees. She was swathed in mint-green crepe-de-chine pajamas and propped up on big green satin pillows in the bigger teak bed, but her gold mechanical pencil was still in her hand and her pince-nez were still on her nose.

She looked me over and frowned. "I do hope whoever did that came away worse off than you did."

"No, he got away clean, not counting his evening suit. But he left me with a calling-card." I handed her the note and the envelope.

She reached out one long arm to take them both, and then studied them at some length while I perched on the foot of her bed with my legs tucked beneath me. "Why ever do these sorts think that such letters are persuasive?"

"Perhaps because of the claim that they'll kill you if you keep poking around?"

That earned me a frosty look.

Resting a forefinger against my chin, I donned a pensive expression. "On most folks, those who are sensitive about little matters like their lives, such threats tend to be quite effective."

The noise that came from her may have been delicate, but it was still a snort.

"However, we're both agreed that you are far, far above such fears. So, they may only be trying to slow you down."

"They can certainly try." Now her pencil tapped against the note. Restless, I got up and craned over my shoulder to examine the hem of my dress. Shoot, scratch one seam, and I hate having to attempt home repairs. "Odd that they somehow knew where you'd be having dinner this evening,” Mrs. Blake resumed, her voice remote.

I ceased mourning a laddered pair of silk stockings. Letting my skirt slide back down and turning my full attention to her, I said, "Yes, now that you mention it, that was strange."

Leaving me to stew over that notion, she picked up one of the file folders scattered around her on the quilted satin coverlet. Opening it, she frowned. "The medical examiner places the time of the murder around when Mr. Pelaski made his phone call to this household, which leads me to wonder if he was actually alone when he called. He may have been trying to use my name in order to bring pressure to bear on someone and misjudged.” Glancing over the pince-nez, she added, “I’d imagine he thought that, if necessary, he could cancel your meeting with a definitive enough pass. Although I’m sure you would have somehow made him pay for wasting your time.” The smile before she went back to her folder was so quick that a mistimed blink would have made me miss it.

She paused to flip over a couple of sheets of paper and then resumed talking. “Apparently Danny Tyler has an alibi for the time of the murder. That’s rather a pity because he had been sharing quite a few social evenings with Mr. Pelaski lately. However, his alibi was vouched for by the several press photographers taking pictures of a young lady in a low-cut polonaise gown who was attempting to demonstrate for them how to use an out-of-period rifle.” Her lips twitched and she added dryly, “Mr. Tyler was forced to confiscate the weapon’s ram-rod after a small but painful incident involving Stan Vucci of the _Examiner_. So, the occasion was seemingly a memorable one.”

I felt my own lips stretch towards a grin. Our eyes met and held for a moment before we both glanced away.

Looking down at her notes, Mrs. Blake adjusted her pince-nez and continued, “My young man in Everest Publicity, the one with a weakness for playing cards, reports the reason for Mr. Tyler’s presence at that press conference. He has recently been helping with the publicity interviews for something called _Rifles Across the Delaware_."

"Oh, really." I felt my eyebrows climb. "John Kendrick’s new movie. He talked about it at dinner. Perhaps I should go over to the lot tomorrow and nose around a little."

Her nod was regal, but it was also decisive. "Yes, perhaps you'd better. But first, give me the particulars of what happened at your supper party this evening."

I admit that I enjoyed myself. I was raised to be an actress, after all, having first been shoved in front of a camera by my parents when I was three. I'm told I dimpled. Although I'd shared the harried attentions of a governess with the other studio brats, for years my real education had consisted of reproducing the fine points of whatever story some rushed assistant director in a tweed cap or a straw boater had acted out for me. I no longer have the money I got – that, my parents spent – but I still have the knacks I learned, even if they’re now used only to provide tiny details of speech and gesture for Mrs. Blake to ponder.

After miming tossing the platter of Baked Alaska at my thug, I paused. "But he still made it out the main doors and hoofed it away down Sunset. No one saw where he went. And he didn't even have a hat and coat. I talked to the hat-check girl."

"Perhaps he was picked up by some accomplice." She frowned slightly. "An obviously contrived encounter."

Having had another take on the matter, I agreed. "Mm-hmm. Now the question is who at that table tipped off Fox-face?"

"Do you have a preference?"

I nodded my head. "Sure. Susan What's-her-name. She was the only one there who isn't an acquaintance of mine or better. But I'm not idealistic enough to think the universe will fall in with my preferences. So, actually, no."

"Hmm," she said. Could that be a hint of sympathy in her tone? Somehow, I hoped not. To be honest, I don’t mind having her sympathy when I need it, but I didn’t want to need it over this case.

I made a face. "The problem is that we're talking about someone I know being involved with murders. A murder."

"Yes, technically a single murder and two manslaughters. But when the victims of a hit-and-run are children, the distinction becomes difficult to remember." At the faint note of anger in her low voice, I gave her a startled glance. Mind you, I'd been keeping those two dead kids firmly in mind, but I wouldn't have thought Mrs. Blake had a maternal bone in her entire voting precinct, let alone her body.

Her finish was too glossy to be scratched by my appraisal, but her lips did quirk a little. "As usual, you did a competent job this evening under difficult circumstances. Is there anything else, Vera?"

Well, maybe what was driving her was the same kind of impulse that made her write all those checks to charities and vote New Deal Democrat. Noblesse oblige, I think they call those particular sorts of whims. She has an annoying tendency to display new and commendable traits from time to time, knocking me off balance. "No, ma'am. Although I'll need whatever background you have on this mess."

She offered me the file folder. "Then you'll want these."

When I leaned over and took the notes, she gave me a stern look through the pince-nez. "And Vera? Do something about that scrape on your cheek." Her free hand lifted a little before falling back onto the coverlet. "Along with the rest of this nonsense, you wouldn't want an infection."

"Yes, Mo—"

"Go to bed, Vera,” she said, and turned her attention firmly back to her remaining file folders.

Something other than my ruined frock was making me grumpy on the way out of her door, but I wasn't quite sure what. Good thing I've never claimed to be a genius. I'd have felt like more of a dope than I did when I finally figured out my answer.

***

I had a lot of chats at Everest the next day, although I’ll spare you the ones where we talked about matters that had nothing to do with the Pelasky murder. There were a lot of those, both for the sake of diversion and for the sake of my usual routine of gathering information for Mrs. Blake's articles. In any case, most of the people I spoke with weren't Mrs. Blake's regular sources, or weren't her sources at all, so there's no point in directing undue attention towards anyone with whom I might have talked before or since.

But wait, you say. They let you wander around a movie lot speaking with the employees, when you're known to work for one of the biggest snoops in Hollywood? Yes, in part because the dangers of hindering the sharper gossip columnists were already well known in the mid-thirties. Even Mrs. Blake, when frustrated, would eventually collect her pound of flesh from any studio that crossed her. There was also the consideration that a big chunk of her money came from shares in an eastern bank that had strong ties with the industry. This was the source of power that had allowed her to indulge in her acute dislike of that certain studio executive with a broken nose by first hiring me and next making sure that I visibly flourished. But there was also a third and subtler, if also more legitimate, justification for my lot pass.

Rick McCormick, publicity flack and my chaperone, knew perfectly well what I was after, if not the details of how I meant to get it. I'd been up-front when I called the appropriate individuals because about three seconds after the words "El Matador Theater” came out of my mouth, a nameless power in the background, two of whose names probably began with a D and a J, intervened. I imagine he saw a chance to weed out the kind of poisonous rumors that always flourish around Hollywood scandals like the shooting of William Desmond Taylor and the Thelma Todd murder, events where the truth gets trapped halfway between open display and absolute concealment. And while Mrs. Blake has a reputation for digging up facts like a pedigree terrier, she's also been known to occasionally rebury them under some figurative rosebush. So, this particular studio power was taking a well-calculated risk.

For my part, having McCormick twenty feet away, chewing meditatively on a toothpick while examining cables and flat-braces, put an imprimatur on my presence that made more people willing to speak. Of course I had no guarantee that instructions about what to say hadn't gone out, but I've built up a lot of experience in judging when that's happening and I wasn't getting that certain, special feeling that day.

As so often seems to be the case, though, I finally hit pay-dirt when I wasn't digging for gold. My lunch date – let's call him Charlie Rowe – has been my friend for a long time, ever since we were both snotty screen moppets contemptuous of the thundering herds of supposed child prodigies who showed up for studio cattle-calls. As we got older, we'd swap dime novels and stolen cigarettes. After we’d hit our growth spurts we'd drifted apart, but the past several years we'd drifted back together as I figured out what had made him draw back and he figured out that I'd figured.

You could say that Charlie has a severe case of chorus-boy disease, and if you think that has something to do with weak knees, you might want to cling to that belief without asking for details. In any case, he'd been doing well enough with B-movie leads and character roles in A-level films that I let him buy my lunch at the studio commissary. The two of us are so widely known to be friends that McCormick wandered off to whatever henhouse publicity-types raid for their grub when they aren't working. So, Charlie and I were left together in such privacy as the commissary provides.

Charlie paid for our meals and then escorted me to an empty table in a corner. When he'd seated me, he glared at two tray-toting gorillas – extras in furry suits, not criminal types – who were scooting towards the remaining two chairs. With that taken care of, he leaned over and gave me a kiss before sitting down, one with implications that I tolerated. Once an actor, always an actor, and he had a real need to hold on to his chosen role if he wanted to keep that Cadillac and the house on Santa Monica beach, not to mention stay out of jail.

Done with the public ritual, Charlie asked, "So, darling, how are you doing?"

"Good. How're tricks with you?"

"Dashing about, as always. You are looking particularly good these days, as a matter of fact."

"Me and Ginger Rogers, uh-huh."

"Life as a gossip columnist's gun moll seems to agree with you."

I gave him a world-weary gaze. "That's a gossip columnist's strong-arm woman, Charlie. It's a job, not a date."

"I stand corrected." He was waving a hand all too airily about, so I flicked a red-enameled fingernail at him in silent warning. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped the hand and grimaced back at me. I stuck out my tongue in return. Gosh, the joys of childhood revisited.

"So, tell all," he said, and settled in for one of an actor's chief pleasures, a good gossip.

I unpacked a few minor flurries at other studios that he hadn't caught wind of yet, and then moved on to my own final encounter with Pelasky. Like I'd expected, he was fascinated by my latest brush with the rougher side of town.

"Zowie," Charlie said when I was done. "However, I'm not really surprised that he finally got it and neither, I’ll bet, were you." Charlie was referring to Pelasky's reputation as a shady match-maker. The late lawyer was always bringing people together: all-but-blackmailers and their victims, businessmen and anti-labor specialists, the respectable but financially needy and those with cash that required a lot of scrubbing. "I’d heard he needed cash. He must have gotten rushed and finally misjudged the ingredients of one of his little mixers. I wonder who blew up in his face."

"I could give you a name of a bystander."

He grinned and stuck up three fingers. "Scout's honor that my lips will stay buttoned. At least until the scandal breaks or until you tell me as much as you can of the whole story, whichever comes first."

"Okay, you're on." We hooked pinkies to seal the deal, and then I leaned forward and said softly, "Danny Tyler."

"Really?" His eyebrows rose. "That's actually a surprise. Let's see." He pondered, chewing a lip as he raked over his own stockpile of rumors for me. "The last time Tyler would have had any work to do with Pelasky would have been a year ago last spring, when he was our local delegate to that conference between Icy O'Grady and the Culver City studio execs about heading off a certain labor dispute. But you've probably already heard those old tales."

I nodded without speaking. Even if I hadn't heard, Mrs. Blake's folder would have told me. And both Charlie and I knew that a year was a long time for fatal trouble to brew without overflowing.

Charlie continued, "But Pelasky got a little shy about the studios after the blow-up at the Mammoth Studio convention." We both grimaced. That poor girl. All those regional sales representatives. "Since then, I think he's been sticking to business. Or to dealing with businessmen, at any rate." He shook his head. "I'm afraid you need to talk with the living. With Tyler, that is."

"I'm afraid you're right."

"Well, for heaven's sake be careful. Danny Tyler is a real piece of work. I know you think you're tough, but there are limits."

"You're telling me. If I had a choice, I'd rather get my information from some legit big-time businessman who buddies around town and knows all the players. You know, like the late, lamented Mr. Blake.”

Charlie's face twitched. He cleared his throat to cover up what had obviously started as laughter.

"Yes?” Maybe if my tone hadn't been so snide, he wouldn't have said anything. Maybe. But he was an old friend, so maybe he would have talked in any case.

Charlie considered me for a long few seconds. Then he finally spoke. "Oh, it's nothing much. I once met the late Mr. Blake when he was still above ground and buddying around town, as you so nicely put matters. A very striking gentleman in all sorts of ways."

For another long few seconds I considered him right back. "You're serious."

Without speaking, he raised three fingers again. Scout's honor.

My mind wanted to chase Charlie's rabbit right back into its hole, but I kept to business. "Never mind." I shot him a severe glance which he repaid with an angelic one. "I need to talk with someone rich, local, and male about Pelasky. Maybe Mr. Beckham or Mr. Miller."

"Huh." His brow wrinkled. "Are you talking about George Miller, John Kendrick's friend?"

"And Gary Walpole's, yes."

Charlie frowned at me before continuing. He'd already let me know what he thought of my slumming with a scriptwriter, thank you for your advice. "Well, you've heard that Tyler has been working on the pre-release package for _Rifles Across the Delaware_? That’s all a cover over his real chore, of course. The heroic Mr. Kendrick's contract is up for renewal, and word has it that Tyler has been providing the same softening-up service to Mr. Kendrick that he's previously provided to several studio executives, and even to a certain nightclub-owner." The owner Charlie was referring to was Icy O'Grady, and the service he meant was rounding up women and herding them into the appropriate bedroom.

I took my turn to frown. I wasn't sure yet how all these bits of information tied together, but somehow I was getting an uneasy sense that they did. Uh-oh. With this large a web, there was sure to be a big, hairy spider somewhere. As opposed to the small, elegant spinner that I worked for, now sitting at the center of her web, waiting for me to tote home the flies.

More background might help, I decided. But when I opened my mouth, the question that popped out of it took me by surprise. "Were you and Mr. Blake well acquainted?"

Charlie smiled even as he shot out a wrist. "Oh, look at the time," he almost caroled. "Much as I'd love to talk some more, I'm due back on soundstage three." I narrowed my eyes at him, and the look he gave me in return was sardonic. "Dear Vera, I don't want to do all of your work for you." And with that he was away, walking fast to move out of range. He's had years to learn that I really hate it when someone else gets in the last word.

III

When I got back to the Blake homestead, Sarah looked up from her telephone long enough to smile and wave a slip of paper at me. I took it and read. Sergeant Steven Cole had finally returned my call, of course, since I’d been out and unable to talk with him.

Exiting the quiet, sunny dayroom Sarah has claimed as her own, I went into the library and crossed the huge room to my own desk. Because Mrs. Blake was lunching with one of her banker friends and unable to comment on my behavior, I felt free to try a few quick toe-touches, just to see if I was still stiff from last night’s fall. Ow. That is to say, yes, I was.

Then I sat down and called the cops. The switchboard operator – male, cranky, probably a uniform with flat feet – put me through. After three rings an abrupt voice answered, “Hello?” That was Steven. If any of his fellow detectives had answered the phone, I would have heard, “Yeah?”

“This is the Griffith Park Observatory, returning your call. We watch the stars for you, Sergeant.”

“Hold the line for a second.” I frowned. No come-back to my wisecrack? That was unusual. After some thumping noises, I heard a faint sound I recognized as a door shutting. Steve got back on the line. “Vera. Look, for once let me do the talking because I don’t want this to last long. I can’t give you any help on the Pico case, so don’t ask.”

I took the receiver away from my ear and examined it, eyebrows raised. Then I moved it back and said, “Someone with influence wants to close the case.”

“Did I say that?” His tone was faintly bitter. “They were only a couple of little kids trying to sneak into a movie theater, after all. And Okies at that. Who were killed by accident. Sort of.”

“Okay, I get you.” And I did, too. If he was happy about his orders, he wouldn’t have called me back. “Mrs. Blake and I will take matters from here. She’s been upset enough by this business that you’ll probably like the results. But, off the record, can you give me just one hint? Did the pressure come from my end of town?”

Steve didn’t say a word. He just snorted and hung up. But his snort gave me my answer. I pursed my lips. Now who the heck other than Hollywood wanted this matter dropped? I had a guess now, but I still couldn’t sort everything out.

Later that afternoon, when we discussed the matter as I drove her downtown, Mrs. Blake was also intrigued by my question. But she seemed to find it more enlightening than I did. “Hmm. Yes, I believe I’m beginning to see a story taking shape.”

“Oh?” I turned my attention from the antics of some recent immigrant from back East and his amazing Model A long enough to ask, “Anything you feel like sharing, ma’am?” My inquiry was idle. I knew from experience what was coming next.

“No,” she said, face firmly forward towards the road. “At this point, it is possible I am being informed by prejudice. I’d rather have you continue gathering your facts without preconceptions.” 

She was sitting next to me in the Packard, dressed in her usual dark blue Chanel suit, suitable for all daytime activities. Every other afternoon, so regularly that you could reset the big Stickley case-clock in the front hall by it, we go to the movies somewhere in the Southland. Mrs. Blake feels that viewing a broad cross-section of Hollywood’s product is necessary to her work and I don’t argue with her. Even with my background I like movies, including the bad ones. Knowing the people and politics involved adds dark amusement to watching some train-wreck of a production captured on celluloid. Not to mention, no matter what’s showing, there’s always the joy of seeing some new group of box office girls and usherettes get a load of Mrs. Blake in matching couture handbag, gloves, and shoes.

Today we’d headed way downtown to Broadway and the Los Angeles Theater. All that gilt Louis XIV décor, all those fluted pillars and crystal chandeliers, almost succeeded in making Mrs. Blake look bland. She settled back into the red velvet of her seat and sat through the cartoon and the travelogue with grave attention. But the newsreel provoked a faint sound that I knew was her polite, public version of a snort of disdain.

Leaning in close to me, she said, keeping her voice to a murmur, “Sarah discovered that Mr. Tyler has been spending his Wednesday evenings out on Santa Monica Bay, on the _Louisiana_.”

Her breath was tickling my ear. And she’d had wine with her lunch. “Oh?”

“A gambling ship, I believe.”

I nodded, probably unseen. “Yes, one of Icy O’Grady’s. Tyler must have built up some credit with O’Grady during that labor-relations conference a year back.”

“Very well. Talk to him there this evening. The amount of fuss he can raise will be limited by his surroundings.”

“The amount of pressure I can bring to bear, likewise.”

“That’s unimportant. There are only two questions to which I truly need answers.” For a few minutes, as up on the screen they showed us Germany, she fell silent. Then she leaned in again. Where were hushing neighbors when you needed them? “I want you to take Jimmy with you.”

Mrs. Blake’s handyman, Jimmy, is about six feet two, built like a battleship, and used to be a sort-of successful pugilist back before Sarah conquered him as her own personal domain. I have a feeling that he once worked at something other than boxing to plump up his wallet, though. Maybe during Prohibition, he transported liquid recreational supplies, because he's the one who keeps our automobiles in shape and who drives Mrs. Blake when I'm not around to do the job. He must have learned those skills somewhere outside the ring. In any case, he is the right fellow to have with you if push comes to punch.

I nodded, and then added just in case she had actually been watching the screen, “Okay.”

“Good. Do what you have to and get me my answers.”

As if I ever did otherwise. I waited for her to feed me her two questions, but just then the main feature started. It was _Top Hat_ and Mrs. Blake settled back again to intently observe what she considered the most interesting aspect of any publicly screened movie: the rest of the audience. Me, I decided to see if Fred and Ginger could remind me of why anyone would put up with Hollywood. But I’m forced to admit that, when the two of them danced cheek to cheek, for just those few minutes all of us, the audience, Mrs. Blake with all her cool analysis, and me with my cultivated skepticism, were caught up together in watching something extraordinary.

Once again, there’s Hollywood for you. Business or no business, even knowing what lies behind the screen, sooner or later the movies reach out and draw you in.

The trick is in learning how to survive after they spit you out again.

***

About nine the same evening, I had reason to be grateful that I don’t get seasick. As is usual for Southern California in September, the day had been warm and sunny, so an on-shore breeze had picked up around sunset carrying fog with it towards the shore. The night was full of grey, curling damp, there was chop out on the bay, and the ride to the _Louisiana_ in the water-taxi was kind of rough. I’d had the sense to wear a slicker over my rose satin charmeuse gown and a fisherman’s hat over my coiffure, but the club-hopping couple who were sharing the ride with Jimmy and me hadn’t thought that far ahead. I doubt her mink was ever the same, given the salt-spray dousing it got that night.

The _Louisiana_ wasn’t a large or fancy ship, nothing like the infamous _Rex_ which would be moored nearby, just outside the three-mile limit, a few years later. But there was enough room on board to hold four different compartments for gambling, a bar with a tiny dance floor, and a small stage for nightclub shows. What with the chop and all, no one was dancing and the stage was dark, but the roulette tables were crowded and the cards were falling. With Jimmy trailing at my heels like some two-legged, single-headed pugilistic Cerberus, I drifted through the rooms until I found Danny Tyler seated at the highest-stake Roulette wheel.

He was losing, not enough to dissuade him from his choice of activities, but enough to thin out his pile of chips and sour his mood. Even the cigarette between his lips drooped and he wasn’t taking his usual casual gropes at the waitresses, either. Right as I arrived, the little ball hopped into a green slot and more of his money hopped into the house pockets.

He swiveled away from the table in disgust and caught sight of me. To give you an idea of his charm, the imitation Clark Gable features twisted into a momentary sneer and then rearranged into what was supposed to be something pleasant. “Hello, Vera.”

I wished he wouldn’t call me Vera. But, then, I also wished that he’d shave off his stupid pencil mustache. Life can be frustrating at times. “Hi, Danny. Bad evening at the table?”

He shrugged. The collar on his dinner jacket wasn’t quite snug against his neck when he did so. “Yes, but my luck’s due to change.”

“Oh, good. Then I’m just in time.” I moved behind him to look over his shoulder, a classic stance for a movie femme fatale. The things I’ll do for a lead. Jimmy, for his part, had traded stares with a natty character at the table who I took for the house representative, and then propped himself against a bulkhead.

“So,” Danny said, shoving a few chips onto one of those stupid splits that never hit when you need them to, “I understand that you’ve been looking for me.”

“Mrs. Blake has a few questions for you, yes.”

“Nice to hear she’s finally found some use for a man.” Holding up a hand, he waited, face completely blank, while the croupier spun the wheel and rolled the ball in the other direction. More of his chips returned to the house. Just as well that I had that interval to master my temper. Danny Tyler with drinks in him: all of the oil, none of the slick.

Danny considered the result of his bet and then he smiled. Somehow the expression was twice as nasty as it tried to be charming. “Tell you what. Pick my next bet for me and if it hits I’ll answer a question.”

“You have a deal.” Well, at least he was willing to talk. If he’d been unwilling, he would have requested something in swap that he’ll never voluntarily get from me, ever. The wheel spun a few times. I studied the wheel, the croupier, Jimmy, and the other people at the table, especially the house representative. Then I reached over past Danny and moved a single chip onto the red box. Strictly speaking, my intervention was against the rules. But the wheel still spun afterwards. The ball skittered into the nine slot. Expressionless, the croupier shoved two chips towards Danny.

“You call that a win?” Danny was welshing, typical.

I made sure my own face was bland when I said, “I’m only warming up.” I moved the two chips into position for a six-line bet, which would return six for one.

That bet came up for me, too. Amazing. I asked Danny, “Is it true that you were supplying your specialized merchandise to a certain rifle dealer?” I was talking about him finding women for John Kendrick, and we both knew it. But the rules of the bigger game outside of this ship made him only able to answer my question if that valuable name wasn’t spoken in public.

Danny contemplated the lit end of his cigarette, and then the green felt of the table. “Yeah, a couple of shipment’s worth.” Well, the extra bit of information at least made up for the red box bet.

However, neither of us felt the need to say more than that while we waited. For his next turn I moved the chips to a street bet, paying off at eleven to one. The table was silent, watching the ball ride the wheel, and then broke into murmurs as the croupier pushed the stack of winnings towards Danny.

I asked, “Why was your client so eager to have you find him merchandise? I’d think he’d be able to find plenty himself, given what he has to pay with.” Even I had felt Kendrick’s charm. He didn’t need an amateur pimp.

Danny tilted his head back until he was almost pillowed against my cleavage. The bare expanse of his throat was tempting, very tempting, although probably not in the way he thought. “Oh, sure. But he wanted a very public deal because he was trying to squeeze out a previous supplier.” He smirked. “One who was reluctant to break their monopoly.”

And there it was, the fact Mrs. Blake had sent me to learn. Danny raised his eyebrows at me. “Next bet?”

I lifted a shoulder, let it fall, and stepped away. “No more questions. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Again his face clouded in that give-away moment, but he didn’t cut up rough. Maybe he had some sense after all, or maybe he heard Jimmy cracking his knuckles. The sound was certainly loud enough to be audible across the room. In either case, Danny looked down at the stack of chips in front of him and his expression smoothed back out. He reached for his whisky to wash down my luck.

I left Danny Tyler happy with his chips, with his drink, and waving for the attention of one of the girls. When I went back out into the corridor, Jimmy nodded towards a former hatch that had been secured open, and then screened off with a green cloth curtain. Standing, holding the curtain aside with one hand while lighting a cigarette with the other, was the dinner-jacketed, gentlemanly strong-arm man Jimmy had exchanged glances with at our table. The strong-arm man pocketed his sterling lighter, nodded a polite acknowledgement of our presence, and then went into the compartment, leaving us to follow him.

Back behind that cloth curtain, did enough cash change hands to more than make up for any losses the house might have had on Tyler’s wins, plus a service fee? Would I write that, and by doing so imply that the _Louisiana_ ’s roulette wheels were somehow rigged? Enough to note that half an hour later Jimmy and I were headed back towards the Santa Monica waterfront with no hard feelings on the part of our recent hosts.

The water-taxi landed us by one of the darker spurs off the lower level of the Santa Monica Municipal pier. Jimmy handed me up over the gunwale, and I passed him my slicker and hat before carefully climbing the dripping wooden ladder up to the pier itself. Jimmy paused to pay our pilot.

During the day, this spur next to a seafood cafe had other, more piscine, uses. So, I was watching my step, not wanting to take a slide on fog-dampened fish scales. I’ll give myself the benefit of the doubt. Maybe that’s why I was taken by surprise when I walked between the two stacks of crates and into the lamplight dimmed by tendrils of mist.

There were three of them, one in a cheap brown suit and two in coveralls. The guy in the suit had a much-too-familiar set of foxy features. And that was all I had time to notice before he said, “That’s her,” and the other two, bigger guys started towards me.

Was I glad just then that Mrs. Blake had insisted that I take special lessons from one of Mr. Inoue's relatives? Why, yes I was.

I scowled and kicked off a shoe. "I warn you boys, I know ju-jitsu." They laughed. Even though the warning was quite serious, I'd known that they would laugh. I kicked off my other shoe. "Oh, and so does he."

Emerging from between the high piles of fish crates, Jimmy stepped forwards into the light in that quiet way he has, smiling faintly. Even in the foggy dim you could see the glint across each big hand where he was wearing a set of knucks. Mrs. Blake believes in further training for all her staff, even those with a solid, basic education.

They stopped laughing. I'd known that would happen, too.

We had a fairly brisk chat. Training or no, in a squabble of that sort I tend to keep out of the way and let Jimmy do the heavy lifting. For one thing, he enjoys the job and I don't. I settled for sending Fox-face into one of the piles of fish crates when he tried to grab me for a shield, which broke two nails, darn it. He was also knocked out, which let me check his wallet after I'd checked his pulse. Jimmy took care of the other two men in fairly short order, but stopped his one-sided sparring session after they were unconscious. If he'd kept going, Sarah would have been upset when she heard about what he'd been up to.

"Alvin Henderson,” I read out loud from a social club membership card in my fellow's wallet. "Ring any bells from the good old days?"

Jimmy shook his head no.

"Not too surprising. I'd imagine they're amateurs, or they'd have brought along more than fists."

Mind you, I try not to make the mistake of underestimating amateurs. Think for a moment about how many professionals have ended up the losers in stupid little squabbles with amateurs who got lucky. It’s something I consider every now and then.

Jimmy proffered another wallet, and I went through that, too. This time the results were much more interesting. I'd found a business card with some nice, greasy smears. I leaned over and checked the two men Jimmy had neatly piled up. Yes, faint traces of grease on their hands: probably mechanics. And I was willing to bet I knew where they all three worked. The card was for Mr. Miller's La Cienega Ford dealership.

***

When I went into the foyer, I was already looking in the direction of the side staircase and my bedroom. Right then there was nothing I wanted more than a long, hot tub bath. That’s why, when I reached out with fisherman’s hat in hand and hit the fedora already occupying my peg, and then turned to see the two coats hanging on the big mahogany rack in the hall, I said, “Oh, darn.” Then, deciding that my exclamation wasn’t quite enough, I added, “Damn.” There, better. Feelings properly expressed, I hung my slicker and hat on the rack to be rinsed off tomorrow, made a few emergency repairs to my coiffure in the mirror, and headed towards the library.

Outside the double doors in the corridor, I came face to face with Mr. Inoue, pushing the drinks cart. He looked me over and then gave me a gentle frown that suited his delicate and graceful features.

“I know, I know, but this was a particularly rough evening,” I said, making sure to keep my voice down.

“Miss Vera,” he said, just as softly, “you are incorrigible.” After several decades in this country, his accent had faded to an exotic wisp. But his attitude, by all reports, hadn’t changed much at all in those decades. He was almost as fiercely and affectionately loyal towards Mrs. Blake and her intimates as he’d been towards his late Master—

Mistaking my sudden blink of comprehension for a reaction to voices raised to audibility inside the library, Mr. Inoue said, “Although the hour is late, a man arrived ten minutes ago from Everest Studio, accompanied by a young woman.” His tone and word-choice implied that he might have disapproved of the pair if he’d been crude enough to think it his place to do so.

“Hollywood,” I said. My comment was as much about my suddenly-confirmed reassessment of the late Mr. Blake as to express my opinion of midnight intruders.

“Yes, Miss,” he agreed before he half-smiled. “A very small brandy-and-water?”

“Oh, please,” I replied with fervor, and then went and held the right-hand door open for him.

When I followed him into the library, Mrs. Blake looked over and gave me an exasperated glance I could practically feel all the way across the room. She held up one hand. “Just a moment, if you will.”

It took more than a moment for me to get over to my desk and pull out my stenography pad and pen, but who’s keeping track? At least the company kept quiet until I was ready and had had a chance to see who’d come calling.

Rick McCormick was parked in an armchair, at his ease in the same suit he’d worn that morning, even if I did get the idea he wouldn’t have minded having a toothpick to chew on. He took his bourbon and branch from Mr. Inoue with a certain brisk eagerness that gave me the impression that his evening, until now, had been trying, and he wasn’t expecting real improvement any time soon. Aw, poor guy, Mrs. Blake had probably been prodding at him. I wished I’d been here to watch.

Susan Dodd – I’d found out her last name at the studio earlier – took a gin and tonic, and gave no impression while doing so of being at ease. She was sitting forwards on the edge of her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, shoulders stiff and spine held straight. The neckline on her navy-blue dress was so high you’d have thought she was visiting a convent.

I took the brandy-and-water Mr. Inoue poured for me, smiled at him, and flipped to the proper page on my pad while he took Mrs. Blake her cup of tea. She had a sip, set the Sevres cup back down on its saucer, and asked, “Well, Mr. McCormick, I trust you have no objection to this conversation being recorded?”

“I don’t think—” Susan started, only to be cut off by a glare from McCormick. I was glad to observe, though, that she glared right back at him.

“Of course, Mrs. Blake. We trust your discretion,” McCormick said smoothly.

“You shouldn’t,” she replied. I ironed out my grin and made a very obvious note, which I was glad to see made her narrow her eyes minutely.

McCormick visibly considered how to take this, and then decided to just let it go. “Anyhow, as I was saying, Miss Dodd has some information for you we thought might be of interest.”

Mrs. Blake studied him, and then turned her gaze to Susan. She pursed her lips before prompting, “Miss Dodd?”

The chin went up, the eyes grew wide. I could almost hear the word, ‘Rolling!’ in the background somewhere. “I only wanted to say that,” she took a deep breath and then rushed the rest of it out, “on the afternoon of that horrible hit-and-run John Kendrick couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Because he was with me.” She stopped, and then added primly, “All afternoon and evening. Which my maid can witness to.”

Gosh, I hoped that last sentence wasn’t literal. But I swallowed my moment of amusement and prepared for the questions I knew were about to come from Mrs. Blake.

“Thank you for your honesty, Miss Dodd. Your volunteering this information is very helpful.”

Mm-hmm. Volunteering. I could practically smell McCormick’s satisfaction.

“I do have a few more questions, though, if only to clarify some details. I know you understand.” Mrs. Blake’s voice was now that dark, honeyed almost-murmur that would coax information even out of people who had every reason to know better.

Susan never had a chance. “Of course, Mrs. Blake,” she said, as she straightened even more and did her best to seem bright and eager.

“Have you known Mr. Kendrick long?”

“Well,” she gained confidence as she went, “not long-long, you know, but long. Three weeks.”

“Yes, that’s long.” For bunnies, maybe. “Long enough to have some feeling for Mr. Kendrick’s moods. Was he happy that day?”

Now, there was a cue Susan couldn’t miss. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. 

Oh, cripes, I thought.

“Did you go out for dinner?”

“No, I cooked,” she said proudly. “We ate out on the balcony. It was romantic.”

Mrs. Blake refused to be diverted. “And did he drink?”

“Not much. Some whisky, neat, right after dinner.”

“Had he driven himself?”

“No, he was dropped off by a cab because he didn’t want to leave his car parked in plain view. It’s a Duesenberg so it kind of stands out. John’s very considerate about discretion.”

Mrs. Blake nodded. You could have taken the gesture for agreement. “Given his consideration, I’m surprised that he took a taxi. In terms of risking public recognition, he might as well have taken the Red Car. You’re just off Pico, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Susan said, “about two blocks away from La Cienega.”

McCormick was too smart to actually do it, but he wanted to smack his palm against his forehead, I could tell.

“A very pleasant area. And Mr. Kendrick didn’t leave your side during that afternoon and evening.”

“Except when he went to the lavatory, of course.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Blake said with a sympathetic nod. She may only have been doing her job, but I still had a second’s urge to open my middle drawer and pull out a pin with which I could poke her, the one I’m saving for the day that I finally snap. But instead I kept writing. And Mrs. Blake kept talking. “Well, that certainly wasn’t enough time to do something awful like committing a hit-and-run.”

“I didn’t think so, either,” Susan agreed earnestly.

Mrs. Blake gave her a smile that neither reached her eyes nor avoided them before she turned to McCormick. “I’m satisfied,” she said, and he smiled with just as much meaning as she had. “But you may want Mr. Kendrick’s publicity duties to take him out of town for a few days.” The smile slid off of McCormick’s face as if it had been greased with Crisco. Mrs. Blake turned back to Susan. “I understand Santa Barbara is quite pleasant this time of year.”

Susan, taking her turn, smiled back, willing to be pleased if not quite sure why. She was kind of helpless with women. It was a good thing she knew what to do with men.

After that, it only took five minutes of maneuvering, and five more minutes of fending off McCormick’s attempts at questions, to get the two of them out the front doors. I’d handled the last two minutes of fending off myself, so I was even more tired than before as I watched Mr. Inoue lock the doors behind them. I paused to glance wistfully in the direction of my bedroom and then turned to go back to the library.

By the time I was between those familiar, book-lined walls again, any last trace of ginger from the fight had washed away into fatigue. Mrs. Blake had returned to what had apparently kept her up so late, working on her next article. As she typed, her appearance was calm, collected, and band-box neat. I, on the other hand, was all too aware that the tussle down at the pier had left me with more strained seams and a faint but perceptible aura of fish. I also had two broken nails, another ruined pair of stockings, and a loose heel on one of my shoes. This case was ravaging my wardrobe. To nobody in particular, I announced, "Darn it, I'm a mess."

"You're never a mess," she said without looking up from her typing. “Often disordered, occasionally disheveled, but never a mess.”

I swear, she says these things only to get on my nerves. As usual, she was succeeding. I walked over to her desk and perched on a corner, swinging a leg. “You do want my report, ma’am?”

That made her look. “Yes.” Bemusing me, she took off her pince-nez, rubbed her eyes, put them back on again, and genuinely smiled. “I do. If for no other reason than because you’ll then stop loitering on my furniture.”

Her tone didn’t match her words. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her tone. So, I stood up, instead, and gave her a reenactment of my evening. When I finished and checked for her reaction, she was still smiling faintly. “Fish crates. Hmm.” Then she shook her head. “But business before pleasure. I, too, uncovered some information, at lunch this afternoon.”

“Oh, so that’s why all this makes more sense to you than to me.”

“Perhaps.” That comment was sarcastic enough for me to relax and settle into the chair McCormick had abandoned. “Seemingly, Mr. Miller’s various businesses have been expanding very quickly, with a speed that astonished my banker friend.”

I raised a quizzing eyebrow. Fast-growing fortunes, even during the current depression, aren’t that odd in Southern California.

Mrs. Blake tilted her head. “No one is quite sure where Mr. Miller obtained his financing. But he certainly has had a great deal of cash at his fingertips. Even though a few weeks ago is the first time he’s known to have applied for a local bank loan, a large one for which his application is still awaiting approval. My friend wouldn’t say what was causing the hesitation, of course. Although I did notice an air of wariness about any possibilities of notoriety or scandal.” Her voice went dry. “Bankers are so very conservative about risk these days.”

“Eureka.”

“Yes, the rings are definitely beginning to link. Now tell me this, if you know. What degree of relation is Mrs. Miller to Mr. Kendrick?”

Raking over my memory of casual conversations with Gary, I hazarded, “Second cousin, I think.” Then I considered what I’d just heard. Mrs. Blake waited patiently. Finally, I said, “The trick will be proving any of this, of course.”

She smiled again, and it was as cold as a studio executive’s heart. “I have a few ideas about that.”

“Oh, good,” I almost sighed. Somewhere on my body there must be some muscle that didn’t ache. “I’m not used to all this sustained excitement. I’d really like to stop playing around with guns and fists. Then maybe things will get back to normal around here.” 

“Perhaps.” This time, her expression was the same as the one on the Mona Lisa. What would you call that? Turning her attention away from me, she stretched out both index fingers towards the typewriter.

Shaking my head, I got up and walked out. Finally, I could have my good, hot bubble bath. And not before time. If Mrs. Blake’s dealing-with-a-murderer scheme worked out anything at all like the usual ones did, I’d need all the help I could get.

Tomorrow morning, I would need to make some arrangements of my own.

IV

Around a quarter past eight the next evening, I was quelling an urge to bite my fingernails while parked in the sound booth of Southern California’s favorite radio show, _Sid Hailey’s Cavalcade_. Sid was a genuine, old-time trooper who’d been in vaudeville, silents, and talkies before moving over to radio. He knew Mrs. Blake well enough to have her on his show about once a month, but, then, he seemed to know everyone. I’d even whaled him with a lollypop myself, back when I was six and he was still doing comedy stunts.

We couldn’t have pulled off the stunt we did if not for the fact that radio shows produced in Los Angeles are performed twice, once at their scheduled east coast time and once three hours later for the Pacific markets. That morning, while I’d been busy, Mrs. Blake had called Sid and coaxed him into letting her rewrite what she’d been scheduled to say on his second broadcast. Every time she was Sid’s guest, Mrs. Blake told a five-minute anecdote about Hollywood, easy enough to amend. But she still must have called in one huge favor to switch stories between shows.

Fortunately, the assistant director was in charge of double-checking script timing at the dress rehearsal that afternoon, and he didn’t know she was using new material. And we’d made some arrangements afterwards in case of any problems during the broadcast. But all of our finagling would go unrewarded if Mrs. Blake’s words didn’t reach their intended audience.

As I was working on my remaining few nerves by counting up the ways this scheme could go wrong, Sid’s announcer was finishing the usual sponsor’s plug. “—so, don’t forget, ladies, look for the bright yellow box. You’ll wonder how your floors got clean before you scrubbed with Sparklesheen.”

About then the telephone in the booth rang so quietly that it was barely audible. A technician frowned, picked it up and listened, and then snapped his fingers at me. I went to take it from his hand.

“Yes?” I said, at about one-third normal volume.

“Me.” It was Sarah. “I got her on the line. She’ll be listening. She said she wouldn’t be, but she will.”

“I don’t have to tell you how brilliant you are. That’s Jimmy’s job and I’m sure he does it very well.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “Pretty fresh, Vera.”

“Not guilty. By this town’s standards, I’m over-ripe. Bye.”

Hanging up, I returned to my previous seat, or, to be precise, table. There I sat, slowly swinging a leg, suppressing a smile. We’d had to pull strings to get me in here, but we had our reasons. While our host was perfectly willing to participate in whatever mischief Mrs. Blake had in mind, directors tend to worry about little matters like sensitive sponsors and powerful people fussing. The more attention the director was paying to me, the less he’d pay to what my boss was actually saying.

On the air, Mrs. Blake sounds like Eleanor Roosevelt with It or like the audible female realization of a well-aged cognac. “Good evening, Sid.”

“Good evening, Margot.” Sid, on the other hand, sounds like God’s voice would if the Deity was in a particularly jolly mood. “I understand you’ve returned to share another of your tales of Hollywood with us.”

“That’s right, Sid.” She didn’t glance down at the pages of script she was holding. I knew they were only a precaution since, for a job this sensitive, she would have her lines and pacing down cold. “Dear listeners, I’ve shared so many happy stories with you, tales of dreams realized and stories of the stars that light Hollywood’s skies bringing joy to us all. But tonight,” the melodramatic darkening of her voice would have had me rolling my eyes under other circumstances, but I knew this tripe would broadcast well, “I must tell of a different, darker side to this fair city. Here is the tale of two small children who desperately wanted to find their dreams on the silver screen and of the death that they found instead.”

Sid produced a sympathetic, encouraging rumble. The director frowned: he hadn’t expected this. I leaned forward over his shoulder, making sure he got some diplomatic contact en route, and shook apart for him the pages of the script that I’d spent a good three minutes this afternoon sticking together with overly sugared coffee. And there, right next to Mrs. Blake’s words, were the assistant director’s timing notes. The director scowled at me, scowled at the notes, scowled through the glass at Sid and Mrs. Blake, and then settled in for some really serious annoyance.

He only had five minute’s worth to tolerate, but Mrs. Blake made those five minutes count. Oh, her yarn about those poor kids’ “accidental” deaths was only so-so, although I’d bet it would go over well in the sticks. But her account also wove in a few telling details that should made it quite clear, to one listener at least, that Mrs. Blake had a pretty good idea of who’d been driving that car. It’s amazing what a few sawbucks and some telephone calls to entrepreneurial citizens can net you about someone’s personal automobile and driving habits.

After the broadcast, Sid smoothly moved to intercept his director before the poor guy could even make his feelings audible, and proceeded to swamp him in buckets of verbal distraction and charm. Meanwhile, Mrs. Blake and I managed to duck into the one place where the director couldn’t follow. Sid, true to form, blew us both a kiss before the door to the ladies’ room swung shut behind us.

“Do you think she’ll bite?” I asked the boss as I checked my hair in the mirror.

“Given both your description and the other facts about her character we’ve garnered? I’d imagine so.” She ran her lipstick briskly around her lips, inspected the results, and then gently blotted with a tissue. Then her lips pressed together into a firm, determined line. “As well, my insinuations in this public a forum will bring pressure to bear in other quarters. Let’s return home and await results.”

***

On the way back to the house, I said, “Well, the rest of this evening should be good and nerve-wracking.”

“A necessary strain, I’m afraid.” Her voice was somehow distant even though she was in the seat right next to me as I drove.

“Yes. But I sure wish we didn’t have two of them to worry about. Sarah’s friend down at the telephone company confirmed the call for an appointment last week. Are you certain that, after he tried blackmail, she didn’t get Pelaski herself?”

“She’s too impulsive. I could easily believe that she’d kill Mr. Pelaski, but not that she could find some way to muffle or cover over the sound of two shots and then exit unnoticed from a busy office building.”

“Nice to know you have such a towering opinion of our sex.”

“All women are not like you, Vera.” Her voice was dryly amused.

Not knowing what to make of her comment, I ignored it and kept going. “Impulsive is not good. Impulsive is dangerous.”

“Yes.” There was a pause and then she added softly, “So please be very careful.” 

Usually that kind of comment in that kind of tone would only provoke me. But this night I took sudden, deep breath, let it out as quietly as I could, and said, “You too.”

A taut silence followed. Neither of us is the kind of woman who wears her heart on her sleeve, and we both had trouble with the fact that such verbal displays were occasionally becoming necessary. To be honest, they seemed to happen more and more often these days, even before this inquiry’s murder and mayhem made matters much worse.

I was frankly relieved when Mrs. Blake interrupted my musings by saying, “We’ll have to hope that my estimation of her character is correct. We’ll have to hope that Mrs. Miller panics.”

For once, it seems she was wrong. The way we figured things out later, I don’t think Mrs. Miller did panic. I think that, after hearing that broadcast, she called her husband instead, which was pretty cool of her given the circumstances. After all, she didn’t have a lawyer handy any more, just in case Mr. Miller lost his temper. But we’ll never know for sure because the story we heard about her actions several hours later was a very different one indeed.

I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Miller showed up at the library doors around midnight, but I was taken aback by his company. Even Mrs. Blake raised those elegant brows to see John Kendrick and Gary follow Miller in. I caught the gaze of Mr. Inoue behind them. If I hadn’t already read trouble in Miller’s stance and attitude, the opaque expression Mr. Inoue was wearing would have warned me. I nodded, and he returned a microscopic bob of his own. He wouldn’t be bringing the drinks cart back from the kitchen tonight. He’d be putting my contingency plan into force instead.

Miller marched up to Mrs. Blake’s desk, planted both hands on the edge, and tried to loom. For her part, she steepled her fingers and tilted her chin up to survey him, unimpressed.

“What the hell did you say to my wife?”

Gary sank into the nearest armchair, put both hands over his face, and shook his head. Uh-oh. Kendrick looked as if he’d rather be co-star in a jungle serial to a chimp than be here, also a bad sign.

But Mrs. Blake only said, “To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never exchanged a word with Mrs. Miller in my life. Please sit down.”

Miller straightened and raised an arm in threat, but I didn’t move. I’d been an actress for a good part of my life, and Miller was an amateur. There was something phony about his rage. John Kendrick had caught that, too; his face went blank for a second, and then he crossed to the only armchair on the far side of Gary, well away from any place Miller could sit.

“She’s dead. I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s dead.”

“Really.” You couldn’t squeeze anything out of her one word. “I take it that you’re claiming not to know that she was the driver who ran over those two children in the alley behind the El Matador Theater.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Well, his delivery was better that time, but I still didn’t believe him. He should have yelled some more, or walked out, or taken a swing at her, not shut right up to hear what else she had to say.

“Your ignorance is peculiar, especially considering that your own mechanics stripped down her car to conceal the physical evidence of her hit-and-run.” Her head tilted a little to one side to gauge the effects of her educated guess, and then she added, “To indulge in such dangerous driving only because her recent flame was dining al fresco with his new friend was stunningly intemperate, so I’m not entirely surprised by your news. Of course, Miss Dodd is a rather provoking individual, but I doubt she even noticed your wife’s car pulling away from in front of her apartment house. Unlike her companion, who knew full well that he was being followed when he went to Miss Dodd’s apartment that day.” Her tone dry, Mrs. Blake spared a moment to glance coldly at Kendrick. Even given the danger Miller posed, I couldn’t blame her. Kendrick’s nasty ideas about how to scrape off a clingy mistress had a lot to do with this mess.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! This is rubbish!” Miller smacked her desk in his wrath. The way he timed the business was off. As for me, I concentrated on keeping my mouth shut. The one part of Mrs. Blake’s theory I hadn’t bought was her notion that Mrs. Miller had told her husband exactly why she’d been speeding through that alley like a maniac, probably to goad him. From the way he was reacting, the boss was correct again. He’d already known, all right. Mrs. Blake’s reference to Kendrick’s and Mrs. Miller’s affair hadn’t ruffled him one bit.

I knew I should feel bad because Mrs. Miller was dead, but I have to say, she sure turned out to be a real piece of work.

Miller tried switching to grief, probably in aid of getting out his story. “None of this nonsense matters now. I’d picked up Gary and John at Gary’s place. We were all going out to dinner this evening at the Derby, before John’s publicity tour took him to Santa Barbara. But when we got to the house,” he faltered. “We were too late. When we went inside, she’d shot herself.” How charming of him to bring along Kendrick to take a good look at the corpse. Still, I was more worried about Gary. Miller was busy being Wild With Grief. But Gary had that collapsed-in look which is one of the real ways sorrow seems to hit people hard. “She left a note, blaming you.”

Mrs. Blake’s face was like well-carved alabaster. “Did she? How convenient for you.” She shook her head minutely. “I’m afraid she should have anticipated that, at some point, your urgent need to avoid scandal would be outweighed by all the trouble concealing her crime was causing you.” I’m glad I’ve never seen that look in her eyes directed at me. “I’ve often heard it said that the second death is easier.”

Gary looked up, uncomprehending. Kendrick rose to his feet quickly but smoothly, like a Siamese cat spotting a bulldog entering the room.

But Miller had most of my attention. He knew she’d referred to Pelasky’s death and to his wife’s. It was like Mrs. Blake had turned off his switch. He went blank for a few seconds, just staring at her, and then said quietly, “Bitch.”

Now I was up and onto my feet. That one word was serious, and much too familiar.

Miller continued, “You can’t prove any of this.”

“I don’t have to, although I will certainly bring pressure to bear on the police to investigate your wife’s suicide more thoroughly than they otherwise would have. However, I’ve already taken the only action I consider absolutely necessary. This morning I called and spoke with a certain Mr. ‘Icy’ O’Grady to inform him in detail of my speculations, including the fact that you were attempting to gather legitimate money in order to squeeze him out from his silent partnership in your businesses.”

“Well, now.” There was a pause that was probably only a second or two long, although it seemed much longer. “Well, now.” Miller smiled and drew a gun. Some tiny part of my mind wondered if it was the one he’d used on Pelasky when Pelasky tried to blackmail him. “Maybe you should just call Mr. O’Grady and tell him you got your facts wrong. Yes, thinking about it, that would be a very good idea.”

“George,” Gary said, sounding pained, “this is ridiculously melodramatic. And very unwise.” Meanwhile Kendrick’s eyes had widened slightly and he was edging away towards the library doors. Mrs. Blake was smiling cynically. As for me, I was stalking towards Miller. I didn’t have my own gun but I did have my contingency plan.

"Keep threatening her and you're dead." Was that venomous voice really mine? Guess so, because Miller was turning in surprise. Seeing me, he relaxed. I kept coming. Startled again, he stepped back, well out of arm’s reach. Then he smiled, hefted the gun, and deliberately aimed it towards Mrs. Blake, probably figuring that would stop me. For all his joshing, he must not have taken any of the rumors about me seriously except for the warnings about my left fist. He should have. I knew exactly what it would mean when I pointed my forefinger at him. 

Miller didn't. He looked momentarily puzzled, but that only lasted until the well-groomed strong-arm man from the _Louisiana_ stepped out from behind the tapestry that hangs in front of the side door of the library and coshed Miller down.

The pistol went off but the bullet missed by a mile. Miller’s acquaintance with revolvers must be recent. Still, I somehow found myself across the room, my hand on Mrs. Blake’s shoulder, checking to make sure there was no damage to anything more significant than a Mission-pattern wall sconce.

"Boy, what a ham. This fellow sure has an ego problem," was what the strong-arm man said. How Hollywood is that?

"I wish he'd have it somewhere else,” Mrs. Blake said coolly. But her expression was doing that Mona Lisa thing again. She reached up and gently removed my hand from her shoulder. I took a deep breath. Right: there were other problems still around to consider.

"Yeah, I get you. That’s okay; a certain party wants to have a talk with him about dissolving business partnerships without discussion. Not to mention, stirring up a big ruckus without taking others into consideration. So, I guess you won't mind if we all leave together."

Kendrick, who was being ignored anyhow, shook his head no, probably just to be on the safe side. Gary shrugged, face sad. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t the one being asked. Mrs. Blake considered the strong-arm man and then Miller. "Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind." And when the particular wind you sow is named Icy O'Grady, you're going to harvest a pretty little sandstorm. "Very well. Do the three of you need any help or can you see yourselves out?"

"No, we're fine, thanks." The strong-arm man stepped out of the way, and another, larger thug came out from behind the Navajo rug tapestry, reached down, and heaved Miller up into a fireman's carry. The strong-arm man scooped up the revolver delicately with a blue silk handkerchief and tucked it into an inside coat pocket. Then, even though they'd said they didn't need the help, I went along to see them out.

After all, why should I do all my own dirty work when there are so many men determined to shoulder past and do it for me?

V

John Kendrick couldn't get away from the mansion fast enough after all that fuss, no surprise. He'd tried being attentive and charming to Mrs. Blake, probably still hoping to ward off any damage she might do to his public image, and she'd responded with a visage like an especially well-bred iceberg. It was Gary who lingered. He sat next to me outside the front door, on the low stone wall to one side of the steps. We watched the red tail-lights recede as Kendrick drove away between the twin rows of palms, away towards Santa Barbara, his studio nannies, and what he saw as safety. Left behind, we were silent for a while.

Finally, he lit a cigarette and drew in a long drag. The tip glowed red, and then faded as he took it out from between his lips to ask, "Did you suspect me?"

"Yes, among others. At first. You drink, after all. You're not usually much of a driver, but men have been known to change their minds after the second shaker. And almost anyone might be forgiven for taking some shots at Pelasky in his role as a blackmailer.”

He took another puff, and then sighed. "I'm afraid I really do need to get away from Hollywood."

"Mm-hmm. But leaving the booze behind would be even better."

That time he didn't answer, but I hadn't thought that he would. Out in the lily pond some frogs were croaking, and a coyote yapped up in the hills. After nature had its say for a minute or two, he finally continued, "I knew."

"I could tell. There had to be some reason I was at that nightclub. Someone wanted to hear about what I’d found out, I bet. Who asked you to bring me along?"

"George. That’s why I said yes. I didn’t know George was using his own men to cover everything up, only about the hit-and-run. She’d called me, hysterical, right after it happened. I didn't want to betray a friend."

I'd drawn my knees up underneath my chin and wrapped my arms around them. The Southern California night was warm, but I felt a chill. "I'm sure those little kids had friends. Even Pelasky might have had some. I know I do."

"Yes, you do." He threw his cigarette out onto the drive. It flared up for a second and then went dark.

I shook my head. He just couldn't seem to grasp that he was living in Hollywood now. Try that trick with the cigarette often enough and sooner or later you'd start a brushfire. Build your home on the wrong hillside and you'd slide into a canyon. Choose your friends carelessly and they'd end up dragging you down into the red adobe mud. But who was I to talk?

"I don’t think the broadcast was really responsible for her death. I blame some last hope she had of getting back at John and George." His laugh was very dry. "A vain hope, I'm afraid, and a spiteful one. But it must have given her courage. Of a sort."

There was nothing to say to that. If he hadn’t figured out by now that Miller had helped his wife make up her mind, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. It seemed like he really didn’t want to know.

"In any case, I owe you an apology. By not trying to intervene, by treating this as some sort of _Black Mask_ story, I got you into trouble. I know where to start my penance, though. I'll be the one to officially discover her body. That will be my first step towards wherever I'm going next." He stood up and I started to stand up, too. But he waved me back. "No, you don't need to drive me. Not this time. I'll call a taxi from the Schwab's down the hill."

I let him get about twenty-five feet down the drive before I called after him, "Gary?"

He turned, features shadowed in the dark. But his stance seemed somehow hopeful.

"Take a witness along when you go to the Miller house, so you don't have problems with the cops."

It was a long few seconds before, without speaking, he waved an acknowledgement, turned, and continued his trudge across the stone flags towards the wrought-iron gates.

For one, brief moment while watching him go, I wished I was Florence Nightingale. But I'm not, never have been, and am smart enough not to pretend to be. Instead I am, as I've so often said, a wisecracking bad girl. Even if there are times when that role seems awfully confining.

But there are other times when that role makes me free. Getting up from the coping, I brushed myself off and went inside. When I got to the foot of the stairs I took a deep breath, but I didn't hesitate before I made the hike upstairs to the bedroom where I knew Mrs. Blake would be waiting for me.

***

She was sitting at her vanity table, studying herself in the mirror as I entered. In anyone else, I’d have called her attitude brooding. So, I’ll call it that with her, too.

I said, “No wrinkles that I can see. I guess you don’t need to cancel that Dorian Gray deal of yours just yet.”

“As if I would sell my soul so cheaply. When disposing of any item of value, one either asks a proper price or one gives a gift.”

“Then don’t be so careless with your life, next time.” I clicked my tongue in irritation. “I don’t know why you didn’t let Mr. Inoue and I pat them down as they came in.”

“I didn’t want to take any chances with Yori’s safety. His ideas about familial loyalty are so strong, and Mark—” That was the late Mr. Blake. “—would never have forgiven me if he’d gotten hurt.”

“I guess not.” I walked across the carpet and stood behind her. “And I guess Mr. Inoue is close enough to an in-law that you should be fussing over him. Is that where the rest of Mr. Blake’s estate went, to him?”

“Some of it, of course, mostly in the form of property. Yori has a superb eye for real estate and enjoys those sorts of speculative investments. He finds them amusing.” I watched her reflection arch its eyebrows. “I’m surprised you never heard the rumors.”

“About Mr. Blake or about you?” Our eyes met in the mirror. Hers were calm, if maybe a touch wary. “I never heard any of the ones about your husband. The ones about you I wrote off. You have your male friends, and the local wits use that word a lot in this town about any woman who knows her own mind. I know it’s been said about me.”

She turned, rested one hand on the vanity seat, tilted her head while considering, and then nodded. “Yes, it has, although I thought incorrectly. Not that I believed such rumors would matter, at first. You’ll remember,” and the faint dimples most people don’t know about showed, “that at first we didn’t think our professional association would last very long.”

I grinned back at her. “Just long enough to get me through secretarial school and irritate someone who really deserved it, yes. But the job turned out to be fun. To borrow a phrase, who knew?”

“Yes, and you’re extremely competent. As you say, who knew?” She stood up and restlessly walked a few feet away from me before turning back. “Vera. With your familial history, I certainly understand why you resist sentiment. As you know, I’m also not overly fond of what you term schmaltz, but I do need to understand. From your attitude this evening, I gathered that you no longer view me strictly as an employer.”

Darn her. I narrowed my eyes. She had me cornered. If she wasn’t going to retreat, then by my rules I couldn’t retreat either. And I hate lying, especially to her. She can usually spot them anyways. “Anyone can slip up every now and then.”

"I see. You care for me like—an aunt? An older sister?"

I gave her an incredulous look.

"Ah. Perhaps as a close, affectionate acquaintance? A friend?"

Now I shrugged. Well, maybe. Okay, yes. Without consulting me, my chin was nodding. There. I'd admitted we were dear pals. How nice.

"Excellent, since I'll confess that your feelings are reciprocated, emphatically." Her tone was cool, almost detached, but her posture was more strained than it had been when she confronted Miller. As I watched, riveted by her tension, her eyes met my own and she said, "However, on my part, I must also confess that the emotions accompanying my friendship are—complex."

"Boss—” I wasn't sure just what I was trying to warn her against.

Not that my warning stopped her, of course. "To be precise, some of my own urges, while still affectionate, are also improper, illegal, and unmistakably physical. So, I'd be pleased if you'd clarify your own feelings a bit more."

I made a face. She wasn't letting it go. I don't know why I'd imagined that she would. This poking and prying, these scandalous revelations, were just like her. Hollywood's Wry Observer. Mrs. Blake, you b____. Just what had I expected? For that matter, just what the heck did she expect from me now, standing there with her shoulders back and her chin up, looking not like some older, predatory Sapphist of stage or screen but like a young starlet confronted by her first studio executive?

I took a sudden three steps forward and twined my arms around her neck. While she was still off-balance, I took a deep breath, and leaned forward. Mmm, a hint of Chanel no. 5, very nice. Her expression was still bemused, but her hands were gentle where they'd come to rest on my hips, instinctively steadying me. As for her lips— Well, I'd always admired her lips. How hard could this be?

Not hard at all. When she suddenly tensed and drew me close, her arms were firm, deliberate across my shoulder and the small of my back. Her skin beneath my hands was wonderful, soft and warm, supple, sweet-smelling with both the trace of perfume and her own scent. Underneath her dress I could feel her breasts pressed against my own. I'd have thought they'd be alien, distracting. But they only made me hungry, made the yearning that'd been building up in me for years burst out from behind my dammed resistance. I moaned just a little against her parted lips, and her tongue came to see why. Then it stayed to argue with my own tongue in a smoother, hotter version of our daily duels.

When we finally pulled apart a bit, she was breathing hard, and the pulse in the hollow of her throat was beating fast. "You," she said, her voice smoky, her tone wondering, affectionate. The beautiful, long fingers moved across my lips and, on a sudden impulse, I nipped. "Oh, of course you would." The wonder gave way to amusement in her voice, but the affection was still there. And then her lovely grey eyes were full of purpose and intent.

If you think I'm going to pretend that I'd never noticed another woman's body, don’t. Women are as beautiful as men, and I'd always vaguely sensed that I found that fact a little more interesting than I should. But until tonight I'd let lesser pleasures and greater fears keep me to what society permitted me. Now, though, I'd found a reason to trespass.

I was eager to strip for Margot and her expression as I did so made me feel a little smug. It's nice to have a skill recognized. But when I helped her slip out of that ice-blue satin cocktail dress, her garter-belt and stockings, the green silk scanties, I was only hungry. And when she was naked, she wasn't some idealized, distant showgirl posing in a Broadway review or a Busby Berkley musical, but a real woman full of promise and possibilities. I finally got the feel of why so many of my male pursuers persisted far past the point of good sense. Every detail about her, from the rich, full breasts to the long, strong, lush curves of her thighs, seemed to hint of adventures to come. I loved the way that she walked towards me, so confident in her skin. I loved her feral expression. I loved the fact that I didn't quite know what was coming next and that I didn't much care.

I still couldn't resist asking, "Do you know what you're doing?"

Her head tilted a little. "I take it you don't."

"Given my attitude towards the usual sort of casting-couch, why do you think I'd accept the exotic approach?" I shrugged. "The one time someone asked for real, it was her boyfriend’s idea anyhow."

The smile faded. Her tone when she spoke was faintly exasperated. "Good heavens, haven't you ever had a friendly tryst with anyone? What about those young men always cluttering up the place?"

"Oh, sure, them. Several times. And always with such exciting results. Very, very exciting." I sighed wearily at the recollection of all that much-ballyhooed excitement. Hooray.

"Hmm." She arched the elegant eyebrows. "I'm beginning to think, scruples or no, I shouldn't have waited so long. You seem to have paid for, rather than profited by, my hesitation. Well. Let's see if we can improve upon your dismal-sounding history." With that, she cupped a firm and confident hand around the back of my neck. Frankly grinning, I let her draw me back to her. Like I previously reported, Mrs. Blake believes in further training for all her staff, even those with a solid, basic education.

She didn’t woo me then, or try for smoldering romance. She knew me better than that. Instead we ended up reclining on her green jacquard sheets, swapping tissues to take care of the lipstick and then trading more kisses. No hurry, which was the second thing about this tryst that surprised me. Margot may have had the wheel, but she was taking her time getting to where she was going, touching my arms and legs, caressing all the places that usually seemed not to matter and turned out to matter a lot. After a while I tensed again, but this time it was a warm and eager tension as I waited to see what she’d do next: trace the nape of my neck with a short fingernail, knead my feet while making dry comments about high-heeled shoes, run her tongue delicately and almost gravely along the inside of my elbows.

“Glad I’m not ticklish,” I said, as I twisted atop her for a few more kisses and caresses of my own.

“That can also have its benefits,” she said, but she was smiling as her lips met mine. Her graceful fingertips were finally exploring my breasts and she could see what I thought of that. My body sang like a canary. Then it was my turn to smile as she lowered her mouth and sucked.

“You’re doing all the work,” I managed to protest.

She freed her lips long enough to smile and say, “Not for long. Take notes. There will be an exam afterwards.”

I rolled my eyes, but her lips were moving down across my stomach, kissing again and caressing, and then moving still lower, parting my thighs to touch and nibble. How could I be peevish at that? I couldn’t, especially as her mouth continued. The way people talk, I’d had some vague image of being with a female involving a lot of heaving about and fluttering fingers, or maybe some ersatz invader even less concerned with the state of the accommodations than my usual guests. When she parted me, that seemed reasonable enough, but when she kissed the nub of me, reason gave way to something altogether else again. And then her fingers were in me and her tongue was on me and I wasn’t bored at all. Not one little bit.

Maybe she was kind of rough with me, a little demanding of a novice. That was fine. What she was demanding, I was willing to give. Under all that skill and grace I found myself gritting my teeth, tugging at the sheets, and then crying out. Margot made a noise of satisfaction and really settled in to work. The next sounds out of me weren’t anything as ladylike as outcries.

After a good while of that sort of treatment, I had to take a breather. I tugged her back up and into my arms, and then found myself clinging. She stroked me, kissed me, obviously quite content to be where she was, once again in no hurry. Even after the pleasure, somehow it was that comfort that laid me low. With a shudder, I found myself half-muttering into her collarbone. “All right, all right. I love you.”

“Ah,” she said, in a voice very like the Lapsang Souchong she likes to sip so much. My chin came up and I met her eyes, beautiful but so close that I had to blink to focus. She smiled gently and said, “I love you as well. In case there were somehow doubts remaining.” Then, at last, the smile turned a bit predatory. “Vera, one of the many traits I admire about you is that you’re a fast learner.”

“And there comes an end to any teacher’s patience?” I grinned. At least that part of the encounter was familiar. “Okay, let’s see if I took enough notes.”

If the language coming from her a few minutes later was my evidence, I guess I had. Seven-sister colleges must be much better-rounded socially than I ever dreamed, not to mention edifying. This night was turning out to be as educational as any of our dinnertime conversations over the past three years, that was for sure. So, I set myself to reviewing my lessons in earnest.

When we decided we were done, I thought about heading back to my own bed. But why? Somehow it seemed easier to settle in next to her. Strictly for the sake of propriety, I’d go back to my own room early tomorrow morning. Mrs. Blake’s household was big on propriety. Now, at last, I bet I knew her reasoning: when other folks believe what you are is wrong, a show of propriety is one of the few shields you have against their judgment. And that last thought reminded me of something I’d forgotten.

I blinked and said, without considering, “Oh, darn.”

“Mmm?”

“I’d better call and cancel my date tomorrow night with Richard Fitzgerald, your lawyer’s young man.”

Her voice was sleepily amused. “Why ever do that? Had you planned on something other than dinner and dancing?”

“No, on my side our date would be mostly business. But I’m hoping to spend the next few weeks making my home life my business, instead.”

“I take it the young man can’t compete in that realm.” She sounded silkily complacent, but then, she’d earned it. So instead of worrying about a wisecrack, I only moved in closer for some warmth and yawned. There was a smile in her voice when she concluded, “Show business or not, I suppose there’s no business like home.”

My eyes flew open in the dark, and then narrowed. That last crack finally did it; she was trying for the last word. I snapped. But because I didn’t have a pin available to poke her with, I had to settle for using my finger. However, since such details and their results fall outside the scope of this story, I’ll settle for turning out the lights, drawing the curtains, and bidding you good night from the Wry Observers of Hollywood. And our night sure was good. May yours, dear reader, be so as well.

**Author's Note:**

> If I was ever to make a case for pro original slash having sprung from the forehead of fandom, this story would be evidence. It's not hard to spot the inspiring fandom, either. Since I wasn't the first one to rework that fandom and have it pro published -- An Old West sheriff? A giant, fantasy slug? A _nun_? Really? -- and since I even won a teeny, tiny award for my small-scale, femslash effort, I not only feel no guilt but feel I should likely have tried this technique more often.
> 
> Otherwise, this story was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted to me, where they remain. The usual fandom, not-for-profit permissions apply. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


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